


confession

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [48]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Ten years of radio silence; what happened during that decade? Newt reveals a piece of it to Hermann—one that rekindles the flickering flame of hope he carries within him.





	confession

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: “Prompt: Post-Newt getting unpossessed, he tells Hermann that even though he never replied to them, he kept every message Hermann sent him those ten years apart.”

They’re sitting across from each other—the barrier between them no longer that of three feet of concrete and steel or the Atlantic, but yet, somehow, the flimsy table separating them seems more insurmountable than anything before it.

Across from him, Newt is unusually still, fingers not tapping away at his leg, nor are his eyes darting from side to side wildly as he practically vibrates out of him skin, no; these are the things that the Precursors took from him—his spark of life, dampened. Hermann blinks ways tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks.

“I am _surprised_ they _let_ you in.” The cadence of Newt’s speech is odd, halting and stressing words he wouldn’t usually, hollow. “ _Since_ you’re a valuable asset _to_ them.”

Hermann mulls over the sentences—it’s more than Newton has spoken to him in a long, long time. The real Newt, that is—the Precursors were more than happy to listen to themselves speak. “I—” he starts, pauses. “Well, they didn’t _let_ me do anything.”

Newt doesn’t him like Hermann expects, merely dipping his head the smallest fraction. “Of course. You always were a stubborn _one_ , were you not, Doctor Gottlieb?” He should chuckle, then, say, _Herms, dude, you’re like an ox_ but his gaze drops to the floor, leaving the sentence complete.

“Hermann, please,” Hermann presses—he’s, what? Nostalgic? The old Drift bond, at least partially, can be blamed for this need for intimacy, but truthfully, it’s mostly Hermann himself. “Twenty-three years—I think you’ve earnt it.”

“Oh, you think _so_ ,” Newt says, more a blunt statement than a question. “Tell _me_ , Hermann, what did they tell _you_? I suppose they _sugar_ -coated it and said _that_ —”

“I know you,” Hermann cuts in firmly, “and I know well enough that it’s the truth when I say that you were wholly unaware of the Precursors’ actions.”

Newt blinks at him slowly, almost reptilian. “Was I _though_? And would you know _if_ that is true?”

“What proof do you have that it _isn’t_?” Hermann counters. “You underestimate the bond between us, Newton—I’d know if you were lying.” Unbidden: _But then, how did I not know that it wasn’t truly him?_ Questions, questions—and so few answers,

“ _Fair_ enough,” Newt acknowledges, “but _that_ still does not explain why you _are_ here.”

“Perhaps I wanted to see you?” It’s both a question and an admission—questioning himself as to why, and admitting that he doesn’t quite know, but still does regardless. “Given that I have scarcely spoken to each other in the past decade.”

Memories: the blinking of a cursor as Hermann stares at a screen, words and tears and the bitter burn of strong alcohol, emails sent and received with no reply, texts read but left unanswered. Once, a physical letter—postmarked in his own cramped script to one _Doctor Newton Geiszler_ , the taste of hope and longing and bitter sorrow at his fingertips, but no answer.

Harsher than he’s intended, with a note of spite: “Though hardly for lack of trying on my part.”

It’s unfair to Newton—he knows this, but yet. Yet, it’s true; from what Newt has told them, the Precursors would take control for brief—or, brief, relatively speaking—periods, leaving Newt with blank spots in his memories, but otherwise, they preferred to manipulate rather than forcefully control.

“No, you’re right.” Newt’s not looking at him anymore, gaze fixed on the floor, and he drags a hand through his hair, lets out a rattling exhale—the most Newton thing Hermann has seen him do so far. “It was like— _I_ was convinced I needed to stay away from you, but I did not know why. And _when_ —if I tried _to_ contact you—bam. _Blank_ spot and a stronger conviction _that_ I needed to stay away.”

The admission knocks the breath out of Hermann, and he reaches out to settle his hand on Newton’s arm. “I…” words fail him, and so, he simply sits there for some time, Hans pressed to the other’s arm.

“I kept _them_ , just _so_ you know,” Newton says, and his voice is almost—soft, perhaps, no longer so devastatingly weary and empty. “The texts and emails. Your—letter.”

_Oh_ , he should say, ask, _why_? but all he can muster up is a quiet hum, tears, though this time, not of loss, stinging the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t think you would.” Once he’s said it, the true gravity of the admission hits him, and the tears finally fall, leaving him weeping silently, hand dropping from Newt’s arm to his lap.

Tentatively, as if afraid he’ll break, Newt makes his way to Hermann’s side, kneels down so they’re at the same level, and draws Hermann in so his head is on Newton’s shoulder. The other doesn’t say anything, lets Hermann cry without comment, but his presence is more than enough, and, for the first time in years, Hermann allows himself to hope that things might, possibly, turn out alright.


End file.
